


Nine to Five Soldiers

by PingZing



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi
Genre: Death Star, Gen, a day in the life, death star canteen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:33:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PingZing/pseuds/PingZing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lunch break in the life of a pair of average joes stationed aboard the Death Star shortly before the incident at Endor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine to Five Soldiers

**Author's Note:**

> Adapted from a co-writing session with my girlfriend. Spawned from the desire to write something, and I proposed "two average guys on the Death Star bitching about their jobs". This is the result, and was written without much regard to canon. Enjoy!

Darren tugged at the butt-plate of his glossy white armor. Well, maybe not so glossy anymore--the single can of polish he'd req'd from the quartermaster had been "processing" for the last two weeks, and his normally reflective suit had faded to a matte, off-white color. Oh, and he still hadn't buffed out the scorch mark from that idiot Jones' blaster malfunctioning and firing wildly. Seriously, why did they still buy the old Mk IIs? Probably some bean counter in accounting had decided that they could save this many million credits by switching to a less expensive weapon, but totally failed to account for how terrible they would be.  
He wondered how one ended up with a job as an accountant for the Death Star. It's not exactly something that gets posted in the ads, is it? He had a hard time imagining any of the Empire's propaganda departments allowing the phrase "Death Star" to be thrown around that carelessly. Hell, when he'd signed up, it had all been "Join the Empire, see the galaxy!", or "Live in the most technologically advanced space stations in the sector!"  
In fact, he bet that "Death Star" wasn't even this thing's original name. It had probably been something innocuous at first, like "Primary Mobile Defensive Station", but then someone had taken to calling it the "Death Star" and the name just stuck. Then again, maybe it was intentional? He knew that HE certainly wanted to be on whichever side was rocking anything called a freaking DEATH Star.  
He glanced at the time on his helmet's HUD, and noticed that his shift was over. Time for some food in the mess hall--hopefully it was _edible_ today... 

***

Fiiiiinally lunch break. Johnson pulled the grey suit over his bulging stomach once more in a futile attempt to make his uniform look sharp. He would’ve given quite a bit to a) not have a stomach b) not being able and willing to eat anything and everything or c) not having to wear uniforms. Sadly, not one of those was a viable option. He forgot about the suit as he realized it was ACTUALLY lunch hour. Whistling, he made his way toward the mess hall. Lunch lunch... He had been staring at the radar, deep space scanners, and motion sensors for better part of the morning shift, and he could definitely feel the blip-eyes setting in. You know, the ones where the green 3D UI kept blinking in your eyes long after picking your poor eyeballs from the unit itself. And as usual, nothing there but Endor crap. Nothing. Ever. There. For a super advanced tech-ridden orb, the DS was surely located in a very boring place right now. Seriously. 

But it would be finished soon! Johnson rubbed his hands together and whistled a bit happier. Bam-bam-di-fiuuuu. He'd be in the middle of a glorious battle very soon, defending his world against rebel scum (not that they were of any challenge, but hey, a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do.. I mean... A SOLDIER’S gotta... you get it, right?). He'd win a medal or two and he'd be a bridge officer in no-time. As he stepped into the mess hall, he rubbed his stomach. So happy! Bridge officer! 

***

Darren slapped his tray on the rails and resignedly filled it full of nameless boiled green things. You'd think the supply ships would be able to bring a little more variety, but apparently they were limiting themselves to primarily food from the local planet, "to limit possibility of disaster in the event of a supply chain interruption". Pah! He bet the officers probably ate steak. Sitting in their fancy, spacious chambers, with cute Twi'lek girls serving their food...one day.  
He pulled at the butt plate of his armor again. Damn thing was riding up. If he ever met the person who had designed this awful thing, he would have a word with them...  
Having finished piling his tray full of potentially-edible mini-trees, he scanned the mess for any familiar faces. He spotted Johnson from Monitoring and shrugged before striding over and sitting down heavily at the table.  
"Johnson, you ever wonder if the Star has accountants on board?" He said without preamble. 

"Darren! Dude! Look at this stuff." Johnson didn't bother to turn until the delicious green veggies were in his mouth. As he turned around, his eyes went wide. "YOOOOO! What the hell happened to your armor? You ever wash that shit? Your suit is starting to look like mine." He chewed franticly as he tried to pull his uniform down. "You're a SOLDIER, dude. You should do something about that."  
As the other glared at him he dropped his eyes back to the tray. "So you heard yet, man? Have you? We're getting a visitor soon! I heard the officers talkin' 'bout't." His words were an excited jumble all together. "'s gunna be so cool. A big day for us all! You heard 'bout it?" 

Darren rolled his eyes. "I req'd some polish from the QC weeks ago, but they're dragging their feet. Thinking about just sneaking into a supply closet soon and snagging a can myself. Besides, it looks like YOU could do with a new uniform top yourself..." He said, peering over the top of the table.  
"Anyway, heard about what? I've been on swing shifts the past three days, my mind is all..." He spun his finger in a circle next to his ear, "...lately, so I've just been getting back to my bunk and crashing. What's up?" 

Johnson glanced around in the mess hall, and leaned forward in an effort to keep the secret a secret. "The MAN is gonna come! He wants to inspect! If I were you, I'd be off duty then. You know, his reputation 'n all. We could flock into the watchers' den!" He sounded excited, his beady eyes sparkling happily, meaning the secondary security offices where people went when something was going on they wanted to see without being seen. "Who knows, maybe we'll actually finish this building stuff on time and then we get rewarded, you know? The MAN! Dude! YOOOO!" His voice was hushed until the last exclamation, when he threw his hands to his sides in an expression of excitement. "DUDE!" 

Darren stared blankly for a moment before he got the message. "Wait. THE man? You big Mister V himself?"  
At Johnson's nod, Darren frowned. "Dunno why that's got you all excited. Maybe because you don't have to stand in formation to greet the scary bastard. He gives me the willies! I hear he tele-choked some admiral just because the guy questioned him. I mean, who does that? Way to hurt morale, you know?"  
Darren paused. "...in the watchers' den you say? So like...AWAY from him? ...yeah, I'd be down for that. But find me a damn can of polish first! Last thing I want is for some nosy asshole to find us AND chew me out for having gross armor.  
"You hear what happened to the last guy the Lieut found with skeevy armor when some bigwig was around? I hear he got chucked into the trash compactor. He was fine afterward, because they let him out, but talk about deterrence, am I right?"  
"Totally. You can have the remnants of my polished career or something. You know, I did wear the whites once." He tugged on the insistent grey jacket again. "Wonder how he does it. All those creepy stories about people chokin' and dying at his wish. Maybe he shoots deadly darts outta his eyes or sumfink. You know, like some droid or sumfin'" Johnson's mouth was full of food so his speech was greatly impaired. He shoveled in some more, grunting happily at the juices splishing between his teeth. "Man... this stuff keeps getting better, I swear. So yeah, I heard this story where he actually..." He shoved more food into his mouth as a fellow soldier passed them by to claim his seat futher along the isle. "... choked somebody two klicks away. Somehow. I am willing to bet he has like this army of nanodroides that just sting you in the arse when he gives the word, y'know. Like personal…assassinanos! He can do that, right? That'd be so cool!" 

"What? No way, you've been reading too many trashy half-credit stories. It's just some crazy old monk-religion thing. He's got some stuff in his blood that makes him like, psychic or something. Lets him telekiwhatever stuff." He stared in revulsion as Johnson sprayed bits of food and shifted away slightly. "And sheesh, say it, don't spray it. Though now that I think about it, the whole nanodroid thing doesn't seem so far-fetched to me. Though I bet you half my next paycheck they're privately made, none of this Imperial-made crap." He shifted again, trying in vain to extricate his armor from his various crevices.  
"I wonder if he's gonna see the Emperor? I hear he's actually stationed on the Star, uses it as his seat of power sort of thing. Bet they cackle madly while they plot how to wipe out the rebels."

"Psshhhaaawwwww!" More food disappeared into the bottomless cave of Johnson's mouth. "You believe those stories about monks and telekineseses? I thought you were more informed, dude! 'twas the rebels or somebody that came up with THOSE stories. Seriously. Monks. Chaaahahahahaha!" He slurped down some of the stuff they called ale. It hadn't seen ale even in the ingredients. Tasted like horse piss and affected a grown man less. "Nano, I tell you. Or then he just has some secret handsignals and spies everywh-.... Fuck. Are you a spy, Darry?" His jaws stopped abruptly. "Fuck, if you're a spy, I never meant any of this shit. Loyal to the Empire and hail Emperor and long live Big V!" He nearly bounced to his feet to salute the other, until he figured that would've drawn attention from the OTHER spies, and it would've been awkward... not to mention bothersome. Getting up was... well... He shoved more food into his mouth. "Like, if you aref a ffphy, fen I am your MAN for ffphy fuff." 

Darren whacked the vibrating man across the head. "Calm down, you moron, I'm not a spy. Who even spies on their own military? Much less in their own SECRET SPACE STATION? Seriously! We're in the ass end of nowhere in a sector no one cares about. I doubt anyone even knows we're HERE, after the first Star suffered its infamous "technical failure". Probably everyone assumes the Empire just gave up on wasting tax money on giant space stations.  
"...speaking of which, that reminds me. You see this--" He contorted to better display the scorch mark on this thigh, "--goddamn thing? Jones' blaster went crazy and started firing all over the place. Is it any wonder my armor looks like it got dragged under a speeder bike when we have to work in these conditions? I tell you, it'd be a freaking miracle if I ever manage to hit anyone with this thing. The spread on anything other than "carefully considered single shot" is wider than a twi'lek's legs."

Johnson laughed heartily. He was a man who definitely enjoyed a good twi-joke, even though he had never met one. Pin-ups were all a man's imagination needed. And holos. Oh man the holos. Jabbering back and forth about their uniforms they finished their meal, picked up their trays and tossed them into the chutes. A lunch hour well spent as far as Johnson was considered. The best kind. "Darry, man, if I was a sappy dude, I'd call you my chum, but since I'm not, I'm just gonna tell you to pick up your deck of cards and come lose your credits at the table tonight. I believe Bosner and Kilken are gonna be there too. We can both skin them and then I can skin you. Deal?"  
As they separated at the corridor, Johnson rubbed his now-full belly. Man, when he became a bridge officer, he'd make sure Darren Wilkens would be posted right nearby. An officer needed a wing man. An officer had a need for loyal soldiers. They had three days to Big V's visit. Oh man, this was gonna be awesome. 

***

Three days later, the alarms blared. Darren Wilkens' lost credits were never found. Omlar Johnson's left ear was.


End file.
